Batfam Week 2020
by LadyoftheShield
Summary: Collection of snippets posted for Batfam Week 2020. First three set in an AU where Jason Todd mentors Colin Wilkes. Fourth set in an AU where Damian went with Tim on the Great Broos Search. Fifth an AU where Ra's steals Tim's body instead of Damian's.
1. Overprotectiveness

So this is a ficlet I've had languishing on my harddrive for a few months now. It's set in an AU I'm working on where among other things Colin's powers and backstory have been tweaked- essentially, his powers are a lot less stable and he ends up as Jason's protegee/adopted kid. Here, he goes by Wreckage instead of Abuse

**Day 1 Prompt: Overprotectiveness**

"You don't have to carry me, Colin groused. "I'm not a baby." Even as he spoke, his limbs twitched, almost wobbled back into formless goop. Colin's teeth gritted together as he tried to pull himself fully back to his human form. The residual buzzing from the electricity hadn't gone away. His reactions would be delayed until the polarization wore off. Most of his headache had faded, leaving him with a faint throbbing in his left temple.

"You're not walking worth a shit for another hour at least," Jason said, "Not with your nervous system fucked like that. Besides, it's faster this way."

The smell of raw meat with just an undertone of decay filled his nostrils. Colin scrunched his face at the flash of white bone showing through Jason's shredded shoulder. "Did you have to ram him like that?" Colin asked, turning his head away from the thick black clot trailing down Jason's back. "You're the one always saying to fight smart, not hard."

"It wasn't the most elegant thing I've ever done," Jason said, "But it got the job done."

"You didn't have to," Colin said, his grip around Jason's good shoulder tightening despite the trembling, jelly-like weakness of his limbs. "I would have been ok."

"Wreckage is a hell of a tank," Jason said, "he's one of the strongest people I know. You are one of the strongest people I know, Colin. But you're still a kid. I hear you making that face at me, I'm not done-"

"You're not invincible either, Jason."

"I'm not done," Jason repeated. "You're fearless, collected under pressure, and sharp. You're as good as any Robin. And that's why I worry. Even with all of that going for you, sometimes it doesn't mean shit. You can do everything right and still have everything blow up in your face. Literally." His head tilted back, gently whacking the tip of Colin's nose. "Besides. You weren't Wreckage then, right? The electricity should have forced you back to your human form."

"-I don't remember. I don't think- partly?"

The smell of decay from Jason's shoulder was overpowering now. The remnants of his headache flared up, and he pressed his face into Jason's good shoulder. Was it the filters in the hood? Or could Jason really not smell the rot in his skin, feel the flies buzzing around the bloody shoulder?

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Jason was barely an adult himself, that he was mostly human, too. In the heat of battle especially, Jason definitely didn't seem it. Injuries that would have downed other men didn't faze him. He'd beaten Bane in a one on one fight without ending up in a full body cast. It was no wonder why most people thought twice about crossing the Red Hood- even without a hundred and twenty pounds of human heads hanging over theirs.

But most people didn't live with the aftermath, when they limped home to gauze and careful sutures. Jason healed quickly, though his body demanded a lot of rest and food in compensation. And the particularly bad ones- the couple times Colin hadn't been sure Jason would walk away- he'd been little more than a zombie. Maybe Jason didn't mind. But Colin did.

"What was I supposed to do if he got you?" Colin asked, the knot in his voice tightening on itself no matter how he crushed it down. "I'm not made of glass. I heal fast, too. I don't want you to take hits you don't have to take."

The silence of the sewers echoed around them, for what seemed like a few minutes. It was likely not that long. His sense of time was skewed and he knew it.

"I'll be more careful about getting myself shredded into hamburger," Jason said at last, "and the other shit that comes with our line of work. But you can't ask me not to look out for you, kid. Someone has to watch your back. I know you have mine."

"Close enough," Colin said. It wasn't what he'd hoped for, yet. But once he proved himself, he could take some of the load off Jason. He could protect him, instead of having to be the one who was always being protected.

It was warm in the sewers, for once. Colin's head tilted forward.

"Good," Jason's voice said, far away. The meaning raced by him, and Colin found he was too tired to chase it. "Get some sleep, kid. You earned it."

He wasn't sleepy, he thought as the sewers melted to an inky darkness around him. He was safe.


	2. H-C, Underappreciated Family Members

Set in the same universe as, but before, the last chapter. Colin hasn't learned Jason's real name yet.

If I weren't pulling from my reserves here, I'd have written something for Orpheus and Cass or Shondra and Bruce being disgustingly romantic but considering I found out this event existed literally on the first day posting was supposed to begin I'll cut myself some slack.

Triggers: Implied mental illnesses, specifically PTSD and schizophrenia, mild mild mild gore, food mention

**Day 2: Hurt/Comfort + Underappreciated Family Members**

Colin came to a skidding stop on a rooftop and overlooked the streets flush with dawn's grey light. Adrenaline beat in his chest as the warm morning wind wafted by. It had been a good night, he thought as he wiped blood off his nose.

He should check on Hood, a thought whispered as he scrubbed the sticky red onto his jeans. Colin shoved both hands into his pockets. Hood wasn't going to want anyone sniffing around while he was recovering. He was an adult. He could take care of himself.

But they hadn't actually spoken since Hood had gotten hurt. He'd received a few texts from one of Hood's burner phones, asking him to check on certain people or locations, but beyond that they hadn't spoken since the ambush at the junkyard three days ago. Hood had promised he'd be up and about in a few days, definitely by their usual Wednesday training session. Colin had a couple more days before he should really begin to get worried.

His hand curled around the phone in his pocket. He could just text Hood. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he discarded it. He and Hood had been working together for almost a year now. Somehow, Colin had managed not to scare him off with- the muttering, or the outbursts, or any of the other weird stuff that ended with doctors interrogating him and prodding at his memory, looking for any excuse to lock him away in a rubber room. Hood had taken all that in stride, and Colin was realizing that it wasn't just because Hood was a Crime Alley kid like him. Maybe they were more alike than Colin had thought.

Hood was probably asleep. More often than not, he crashed at six in the morning and slept until noon. If he were quiet, he told himself, Hood may not even realize he had been there.

Hood had several safehouses scattered throughout the East End, but Colin knew which one he'd be at. Despite himself, he'd want to keep an eye on the border with Black Mask's turf. It was the safehouse Colin had visited the most, and where Colin kept the motorbike he'd stolen from Robin, so he had an excuse to come by if he needed one.

The grey light cascading over the streets of Gotham had begun to darken to a ruddy hue when he finally stood on the threshold of the front door. It was a brick apartment, little different from any others on the street except the black trashbags taped over the cracked windowpane. Unlocking the door with the key tied to the drawstring of his hoodie, he stepped inside, lifting up on the knob to keep the top hinge from squeaking.

The scent of bleach and wet paint stung his nose. Newspapers blanketed the kitchen table piled high with tools, weapons and odds and ends. Bags from a mom and pop hardware store perched near the edge of the table. One bag had been pulled down around a tub of thick grey paint, which sat open. Colin wrinkled his nose at the overbearing scent, and popped the lid back on, and pushed the bag filled with spray cans away from the edge.

Stripped gun parts and boxes of ammo lay next to coils of wire, pliers, and a roll of electrical tape holding the pages of a small notebook open. None of the words were legible through fingerprints of grey paint staining the pages, although he recognized Hood's shaky penmanship, except for one printed in careful, albeit lopsided, capital letters - INSULATION - marked with a little star. He recognized the letters, but the whole evaded him, as most words over five letters tended to do.

Stepping away from the table, he moved towards Hood's room. The door was ajar. Half the knob was missing, the broken metal haft jutting out from the lock. Tension tightened his spine as Colin peered inside the room. The bed was empty. The shelves had been knocked to the floor, their contents scattered across the floor. Thick grey paint had been slopped over the sole window in the room, contrasting with the tan paint on the drywall.

A crash shattered the stillness, accompanied by a sudden influx of cursing. Colin followed the sound to the garage in the back of the building, his insides twisting.

He found Hood gathering fallen tools and stuffing them back into the box. Colin stood in the doorway, and hesitated, unsure what to say. He wore an oversized hoodie, just a tad too large for his frame. The fact he'd managed to find anything at all that was too big for him, Colin thought, was impressive. Except for Killer Croc, and maybe Batman, he'd never met anyone built as tall and imposing as Hood.

Behind Hood, in the far corner opposite the little cot he used on cold nights, one wall had been partially coated in some sort of foam, and the garage door had new white panels installed on it. In the center of the wall, he could see loose wires and tools laying ready for their turn in whatever Hood was working on.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Hood?" he asked, hesitant despite himself. Hood started, and turned to look at him.

"Fuck. Wednesday already?" he asked. Colin tried not to stare. He'd never seen Hood without a mask, even if it was just the domino. Dark shadows clung like bruises to the underside of his wide-set round eyes. Red stubble spilled down his cheeks, his throat, standing out against his bronze skin. He didn't look as drained and hollow as he had before, but that distant, detached look still lingered in his eyes.

"Monday, actually," Colin said, stepping into the room. "About six in the morning."

Hood threw a wrench into the toolkit. "Is everything OK? Are you ok?"

Colin shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm fine. I just hadn't heard from you. Are you-"

"Don't worry about me, kid," Hood said, scooping the last of the tools up and dumping them into the toolbox. "It takes more than an avalanche of junk to kill me. I would know." Hood chuckled at some joke that Colin wasn't privy to. Unease pricked on the back of his neck.

"You got looked at though, right? You said there might be internal bleeding. I know you're a meta but those were cars and-"

Hood waved a hand. "'S fine. If it was going to kill me, it would have done that by now."

Colin shifted, cast a desperate glance at the door. He was missing something. Something important.

Maybe he sensed Colin's unease, because the almost manic glow in Hood's face faded. "I'm fine, kid," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Really. You don't need to worry about me."

"Someone has to," Colin said, a sudden fierceness bubbling in his chest, "right?"

He hadn't realized he'd stepped forward until Hood made eye contact again. On his knees, Hood was just about to Colin's eye level. "You're twelve," he said, "that's not your job."

"Too bad." Colin picked up the tool box, and put it on the nearby metal racks. "I'm giving myself a promotion."

A cracked chuckle bled from Hood's throat, speeding up almost to a laugh. Hood leaned forward and rested his face in one paint-stained hand, his shoulders shuddering.

His first instinct was to bolt from the room, but he did not. The only thing worse than being made fun of was being ignored. Reluctant despite himself, Colin slipped over next to Hood, and knelt on the floor beside him. Neither of them spoke for a long time as they sat together on the cold concrete. Finally, after what seemed like hours but Colin knew was only a few minutes, Hood's head lifted again with a long, slow exhale. "Thanks, kid," he said, his rough voice still unsteady. Awkwardly, Colin reached over and patted his knee. Hood's callused hand reached over and covered Colin's pale fingers.

"Are you sure you're ok?" Colin asked.

This time, Hood gave a low sigh. "The internal damage wasn't fun but that's mostly healed now. The rest…" he grimaced. "I've got some real bullshit in my brain, Colin. It's never going away, either. Usually, 's not so bad. Bet you can't even tell most of the time." He removed his hand off Colin's. "But certain things make it worse, whether I like it or not. It'll be fine in a couple days, it's just getting through it, y'know?"

"Yeah," Colin said at last, "I get that. Guess that makes two of us with shit for brains." Despite himself, his voice trembled as he spoke, and he couldn't make his eyes glide across Hood's face. He regretted saying anything almost the moment the first syllable left his mouth, but he couldn't stop it any more than he could fix himself.

Seconds inched by before Hood spoke. "Guess so," Hood said, then cleared his throat. "Winter's going to be here soon, you know. I don't know if you're planning on staying at the orphanage or not, but- well. If you got sick of the Jesus shit, I thought you might want to crash here. At the very least, it'll keep you from freezing your ass off when you work on your bike."

Insulation, Colin realized. That's what that word meant- it was the newspaper he stuffed inside his jacket and the boxes he curled up in on cold nights. Something warm swelled in his chest. They were still good. Even with this shit in their heads.

"Thanks," Colin said, finally locating the words after struggling for a second, "That. you didn't have to."

"It's hardly finished," Hood snorted as he stretched. "I think I'm done for the night, anyway."

"Night? It's almost six-thirty," Colin pointed out. "It's morning."

"Nope. Wrong. It's not morning until you wake up," Hood grunted, getting to his feet. "You just got off patrol, right? I bet you're starving. Come on, I should have something edible here."

"That's stupid, it's morning when the sun rises," Colin argued, following Hood to the kitchen, "because then it's daytime, so it can't be nighttime." The microwave had a coat of grey paint slopped on too, he realized. Curiosity reared its head, briefly, then he decided it didn't matter. Hood might not see things that weren't there, but whatever shit that curled in Hood's brain wasn't his business. What mattered was that they watched each other's back. As Hood had said when they'd met, Crime Alley brats had to stick together. Colin had never expected that they'd stick together this long.

"So why do we say one in the morning when we're talking after midnight?" Hood challenged as he dug through the pantry.

"That's completely different! You're cheating," he accused, and Hood's face broke into a rare, sincere grin as he looked back at Colin.

"And if I am?"


	3. Injuries, Bonding on a Mission

Set in the same universe as, but before, either of the previous chapters. A snippet from the first time they worked together in the field. Impalement injuries ain't fun, y'all.

Written as a pacing exercise, which was pulled from keyboardsmashwriters. Their writing exercises are actually pretty cool and unique- actual exercises and not just prompts- and if anyone knows where I can find more like them, I would definitely appreciate it!

Triggers: Impalement, sensory deprivation, vomiting

**Prompt 3: Injuries | Bonding During A Mission **

Jason took point. Neither position was ideal for Colin. Metahuman or not, he was still a kid and he doubted injuries that he sustained while in his human form healed any faster when he was in his other form. Behind them, at least, they knew nothing waited in the dark for them. Somehow, the pale yellow glowstick continued to shine, thought it was about as useful as a paper umbrella. Even the night vision filters built into the hood couldn't work with the dim light. It couldn't even pick up the outline of his hand on the wall barely a foot from his face.

* * *

Colin had offered to give Jason the glowstick, but both of his hands clung to the small stick with a vise's grip that did not relent even when Jason told him to keep it. He needed his good hand if more trouble arose before they hit the exit, and if they got separated again it would be easier to find Colin if he had the stick.

He kept his good hand on the wall extended just bit ahead of him, feeling along the dark stone passageway. The pain in his abdomen had unraveled to a cold, thready pain. Maybe it wasn't as bad an injury as it had seemed. He just might get out of this ok.

In the close quarters of the stillness, their footsteps echoed around them, drowning out any other distant sounds that may have been approaching. Despite himself, he threw a glance behind him every so often, searching for a distant flashlight or any sign of danger.

His fingers picked up the change in texture on the wall. There were straight lines, corners even, in the dents and divets built into the wall. Brick?

"Hey kid," he said, looking behind him at Colin, "Can you-"

That's about when he crashed into a brick wall.

Swearing, Jason staggered back. The pain in his abdomen flared back up. The heat had returned, not as consuming and demanding as last time, but now it followed the biting cold's spread through his body. The wall became the ceiling, then the floor, and he clenched his fist, leaning against the wall as he fought off another bought of nausea.

"Hood," Colin's light, anxious voice registered. With his insides churning like the inside of a concrete mixer, he didn't dare reply.

"What happened? What was that?" Colin tried to press closer, his breathing fast and sharp. Jason braced his hand against the wall and stood.

"M' fine. Think it was a wall," he said around the remnants of the nausea in his throat. He reached out. Cold, pitted metal with iron bands riveted across it met his searching fingers. He ran his hand down to the side. A knob slotted into his hand. A door. About fuckin' time the universe started to pay up. "Good news, kid, we're almost outta here."  
"Is it locked?" Colin asked, gravel shifting as the kid shuffled in the dark and Jason tried the knob. It turned, but when he pushed, the door did not give. Jason put more weight on it, then felt along the sides of the door, searching. No hinges. "Yeah. I think it's barred on the other side."

A low, tired sigh. Colin stepped toward the door as he slipped the glowstick into the pocket of his stained flannel jacket. "You'll need to move back."

Yeah, fuck that. The kid had said himself he was running on empty. He was the adult here. He wasn't going to make Colin shift again when all they needed was to kick a fucking door down.

With a single smooth motion he sent his heel smashing through the door just shy of the knob, his aim confounded in the dark. The sound of the metal door flying open and crashing into the wall filled the small space like a thunderclap, as fireworks exploded across Jason's vision. He had expected a resurgence of the pain. He hadn't expected the rebar lodged in his abdomen to scrape against his pelvis, to send fire echoing down his nerves, flowing down his bones and setting them ablaze like whiskey on Mother's Day. His insides were twisting on each other in a furious knot. He cursed as his fingers scrabbled on the hood's catch. Cold, bony fingers slipped in and undid it for him, and he threw the hood to the side as he retched.

The nausea faded after a couple heaves, but the burning clung to his marrow. Colin hovered behind him. "Hood, are you ok?" he asked.

"Oh, totally," Jason said around heaving breaths. Somehow, he'd ended up hunched over on his hands and knees. Yeah, sure kid, great choice in role models. "I just remembered Lex Luthor was running for president. Think that's enough to make anyone with a brain barf, right?"

Caught off guard, Colin gave a startled, sharp little laugh. Jason started to rise, but stumbled as the pain flared up again. Colin stepped closer, hovering uncertainly. Jason pulled away, forced his legs to work, and rose unsteadily.

"I could have opened it," Colin said, "you didn't have to do that."

"You can have the next one," he said, shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear the last of the dizziness away. Yeah, ok, maybe that was a mistake.

He didn't realize he'd spoken until Colin retorted, "You think?"

"Maybe just a bit." The pain had barely faded, and it was worse than when he'd first started moving. He was half sure he'd managed to dislodge the rebar inside him. He couldn't tell if the new wetness on his skin was a chill from the air or new blood leaking free. Can't let the kid think to check, he thought.

Something clattered in the darkness. "Here. You dropped this." Colin's light footsteps crunched the gravel underfoot. A clack as something banged against the wall. "oops."

"It's fine," Jason said, reaching in the general direction, "'s probably cracked to shit anyway." But the explosives were still inside, and that was an ace he might need before the end of this. "Thanks," he said, as he grabbed the scuffed polymer. Colin's bony fingers, still holding the hood, sucked all the warmth from his hands in the time it took Colin to let go of the hood and slip his hand out.

It was a distraction, and he pounced on it. "Jesus, kid, you're freezing." The moment he said it, all the other signs clicked into place. The rapid breathing. The constant movement.

"What the fuck? Why didn't you say anything?"

"What are you going to do? Build a fire?" Colin asked, and this time, since he was listening, he heard the faint chattering of his teeth.

Jason clicked the hood back on, and shrugged out of his leather jacket, suppressing a hiss as it caught on the nub of rebar sticking out of his back. "Here," he said, tossing it in Colin's general direction. Colin's surprised retort was cut off by the weight of the leather falling on his face. "I've already got body armor. That'll keep me warm enough."

Silence. Then, rustling and the sound of a zipper. In the darkness, that was the best assurance he'd get that the kid had actually put it on. "Thanks," Colin said, his voice low. Jason kicked some gravel at him.

"No problem. It suits you."

"Really?" Colin asked, then realized a moment later that the darkness prevented any scrutiny. "You're mean."

"I don't have to see it," Jason said, starting for the open door, pain be fucked. They had places to be, and he had to get the kid out of here. "Crime Alley kids have style."


	4. Robins, De-aged

What? A chapter NOT about Colin and Jason? (It's actually more likely than you think)

This one's from another AU (well. the same AU technically) where Damian goes with Tim when he sets off on the Great Broos Search.

Another writing exercise from KeyboardSmashWriters: Take two of your characters and put them in a setting where they can speak together about something that perplexes both of them. Unpack character thoughts in between gestures and brief descriptions of the scene.

Triggers: Depression

**Disclaimer: **I have not actually read Red Robin. Most of my comics knowledge is 70s era as that's where my current read through is. That said what I _do_ know is gleaned from various trades I've read at work (mostly anthologies focusing on certain writers/characters) or Wikipedia, so I know this whole conversation is likely a. horribly OOC b. canon incompatible and c. I have no idea how they actually got Bruce back. This is 100% Grade A BS right here my friends

Day 4: **Robins | De-Aging **| Reverse Batfam AU

Oh hey, their first real sign of progress: Damian didn't immediately try to slit his jugular. As it was, he gave Tim an affronted look. Harsh white light glinted off the blade cradled in his lap as the edge tilted towards Tim. "Are you suggesting Grandfather had something to do with Father's disappearance?"

_Maybe._

"No," Tim said, "Of course not. I just think it's a bit strange that Ra's would expend so much time and resources locating his greatest enemy."

"Father is his legal son-in-law," Damian said, bringing the sharpening stone in his right hand against the edge of the blade in a careful caress. "He considers him an Al Ghul."

"True." Tim rubbed his temple. "It's also true that he's made it clear that anyone who isn't working to further his agenda is an enemy. Ra's hasn't let family ties keep him from his goals before. He's after something else here."

Damian tested the edge of his sword. Grimaced. "That is not an unreasonable assessment," he said at last, bringing the stone along the edge in another smooth stroke. "Grandfather could be using this situation to keep tabs on Father's allies."

"Yeah, when's the last time you talked to anyone back home?" Tim asked. "Because I sure haven't tried since we left Gotham."

"There is you as well, imbecile. You're no Grayson, but Grandfather would be foolish not to monitor you."

He searched Damian's face, then punted his suspicion to the side. Damian's petty insults weren't the concern right now. "Either way, there's no new information he could be getting from us, and by extension them." Tim cast his eyes around the room. Anyone of the swirls or curls in the architecture could hide a pinhole camera or a microphone. He laced his fingers together, resisting the impulse to spell out his next sentence. Damian had been resistant to learning ASL. Even if he had not, Ra's almost certainly had a translator.

"He is not concerned about leaking information, either," Damian mused. Another thin rasp curled around the room. "Grandfather has been very careful with the information he allows us to access. We have learned nothing that can be used to harm him. Even his illness is hardly worth mentioning."

"Wait, Ra's is sick?" Tim asked, "since when?"

Damian looked up from his sword. "Grandfather has been in poor health for quite some time now. You are well aware of that, Drake."

"I knew he's been trying to fight off old age for some time," Tim said. His hand was on his chin, he realized, and he pulled it away and laid it on the table. "Illness is a completely different beast. So is this just frailty or-"

"Cancer," Damian said, his voice almost drowned in the flurry of short strokes he abused the edge of his sword.

Why was that important? Cancer. The Pit. Something stirred in the back of his mind. They were related somehow. The shadowy thought eluded him. He ground his lip between his teeth. When had his memory gotten so foggy? He used to be able to remember stuff like this easily.

Whenever it was, a small part reminded him, Dick had noticed first. He had to have.

"-ake. Drake!"

"-What?" he started. Damian arched a disdainful eyebrow at him. "Grandfather's illness is irrelevant. It has nothing to do with our search for Father, and it is only a minor inconvenience in his plan to revitalize the earth.

Earth. Clay.

His breath rushed in a gasp. "Matthew Hagan."

"Who-?" Damian's eyes narrowed. "-Hagan. Yes. I remember – a mediocre Shadow even before his unfortunate mutation. How is he relevant?"

"Hagan tried to use the Pit to cure his cancer," Tim said, the words slow and careful. "It turned him to slush."

"…Again, I fail to see the relevance. Drake, I think your lack of sleep is affecting your judgment."

"The Pit, Damian." He looked up. "Your grandfather can't use the Pit to fix the cancer."

Damian's sword lowered. Warm torch light played across his dark round face. "No. It would not." His eyes squinted together. "Drake. This is madness."

Despite himself, Tim cast his gaze to the doorway. So much made sense now. That hungry look in Ra's green eyes when they'd arrived in Pakistan, a look that had faded to a glint but never disappeared. Then there was that comment he'd made about Damian embracing his true future, his true purpose-

He couldn't recall Ra's exact words. He didn't have to.

That son of a bitch. He was using them alright, and he'd used Tim to get to Damian.

"You cannot seriously be suggesting that my Grandfather would use Father like that." Damian's sword was lowering from his lap.

Damian would never believe the truth. Ra's hooks were too deep into him.

"I think your grandfather's a desperate guy and banking on the fact that everyone thinks Bruce is dead," Tim said. "If he's going to do this, it can't be just anyone. It has to be someone he's compatible with. Someone he respects." Tim stood. "Can you think of anyone else who fits that bill?"

Someone young. Someone related by blood who can tolerate the Pit madness. Someone with a long, healthy life ahead of them.

Who else could it be but Damian? The only real question left: how much time did they have to get out? Bruce could wait. Wherever- whenever- he was, he was simply lost. Not in active danger of having his personhood erased.

A small, dark hand curled into a fist. "…If you are correct," Damian said at last, "if. Then we must proceed without Grandfather's assistance."

"We can't wait any longer. We know where Ra's keeps the locus. If we take it and leave now, we can be in and out before he realizes we're gone."

"Even if we steal the locus, it is useless without knowing where to use it, and the two of us won't be enough to focus Father's energy."

"You're the blood son," Tim said, his stomach clenching as he spoke. "If you're not enough, then all the rest of us combined won't be." A lie, and by the way Damian eyed him, he seemed to sense it. But it was a lie Damian still believed, and Damian did not challenge him.

"Then there is no point in waiting," Damian said, tying the sheathed sword to his belt. "We move now."


	5. Identity Reveal

Triggers: Body snatching, mild blood, major character death (offscreen)

Day 5: Insecurities | **Identity Reveal** | Keeping Up With The Waynes AU

* * *

"You're not my son," Dana said. Her aching hands curled into a fist as she leaned on the table, arms braced, all her focus on the thing wearing her son's tired face. Shards of glass dug into her throat. "I don't know who you are – what you are - but you're not my Timothy."

Tim's body language shifted. His shoulders straightened, the weight of duty, of guilt dropping away. His grey eyes sharpened, cutting into her like razor wire. "Your Timothy?" he echoed, filling the room with angles and edges as they dismembered the soft warmth in his voice.

"Where is he?" she asked, the pounding of her heart lifting the room around her in a wash of pale grey. Her fingers curled around the handle of her steak knife, a desperate, thoughtless gesture that gave her no comfort and even less leverage.

"Gone."

The weight of his calm voice crushed her chest like a sledgehammer, choking the breath from her lungs as her knife clattered onto the table. A metallic taste bloomed in her mouth. There went another filling.

Silence stretched between them as she tried to keep up with the spinning world around her. "Why?" she asked at last, when she was just composed enough to hold her voice together with spit and raw, trembling vocal cords.

The chill in his gaze cut to her marrow as Tim's head tilted-

No. Not Tim. Tim could be cold- apathetic, even- on his worst days. But he was never callus, never thoughtfully cruel.

"To further my own ends. To remove a bishop from the board. To grant him relief from the misery of a desolate existence. Does it truly matter? He is gone. Nothing will change that."

Something in her wavered its last, and broke. The pounding in her chest sped up. The edges of her vision spun. The coppery taste of blood bloomed between her teeth. "I think you should leave."

"And why is that?" he asked, the click of his teeth tensing her shoulders like a rubberband holding together a pack of cards.

She forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on Tim's husk. Blood from her lip trickled down her chin. "You're not my son. I will not entertain you further."

"He was never your son," he said. "He is no more your blood than I. Had you been more observant, you would never have joined the Drake household. Your bond is nothing more than a farce held together by social mores and the sharing of resources.

The sharp words slid around her. She was already in pieces. There were no targets left intact to hit. "Leave," she repeated, drawing herself up.

The chill in his eyes drained away. "Or what?" he asked, the edges worn away, the softness wrapping around her, strangling her in its ersatz sincerity. "You'll ground me?"

She almost broke, then. Dana closed her eyes. Burning salt built behind her eyes. Her nails splayed, digging into the hardwood table. One nail snapped with a quiet clip. "Yes," she said, burning the wrinkles from her voice with the last of her iron-hot will.

A rolling laugh swelled around her. Too smooth, too easy, too cold and neat to be Tim's. "Very well. You amuse me." He stood. "You intrigue me, Miss. Winters. Were I not short on time, our conversation would be illuminating for the both of us."

Not daring to speak, she pressed her lips together, focusing on the broken glass in her throat. Questions swirled in the spreading hollow of her chest. He was baiting her. Tim's body circled the table, and before she could stop it, his hand cupped her cheek tenderly. "If you wish to keep your life, you will not speak of this to anyone."

Nausea burned in her stomach. Her nails bit into her palm as her instincts screamed at her not to trust the man who had murdered her son.

"OK," she said, forcing the words out through bloodstained, shaky teeth, "Ok."

His thumb brushed the tear building on her eyelids. Then he was gone, moving with a terse, stringent stride she had never seen on Tim before. She stood, numb, reeling, until the low roar of the engine from that horrible motorcycle Tim had loved so fade into the distance. Standing, she gathered the dishes, her body moving almost without thought. The dishes clattered on each other as her shaky hands stacked them. Her breath came in swift gasps. Neither of them had even touched the lasagna.

Something slipped from her grasp and shattered on the tile floor. She broke with it.


End file.
